Pianissimo
by Katja1
Summary: Maybe he's not the only one who needs something here. S/I.


The purpose of this was ostensibly to help them both feel less alone--and that was the only purpose, she was fond of reminding him and he was fond of reminding himself--but every time, for an hour or two after it happened, he would find himself more alone than ever. The energy generated from recent activity could keep his mind awake for hours. Concentrating on her even breathing was one method of calming it down. When he was successful at focusing on the rhythm, eventually it would soothe him into an hour or two of rest.  
  
He had been surprised to discover she actually slept.   
  
His expectations were met to some degree, however; she didn't sleep often, or for very long. Of course, she never spent an entire night beside him, but once and again her body would briefly still afterward, and he would examine her in more detail until he tired of tracing her scars, new and old, in the air with his index finger.   
  
Then he would roll over, lay flat on his back in the dark, feeling fresh bruises throb here and there, tasting copper inside his mouth where she'd left yet more evidence of her presence. He was always tempted to wake her, leave a few more marks on her body to remember him by the next day, but it would be probably a futile process (how could she tell the new from the old?) and it seemed overly cruel to deprive her of rest. Instead, his mind would begin to wander, and usually occupy itself by remembering the evening, just to avoid confronting more serious concerns; on nights like this, those were reserved for daylight.  
  
Sometimes, before the ritual began, she would stare into her glass and tell him a story, unprompted. The subjects were usually random, having virtually nothing to do with anything either had experienced recently, separately or together. He never interrupted or offered any commentary; he merely listened, although sometimes, depending on his level of exhaustion or inebriation, her words would blur together, at which point he would simply close his eyes and listen to her voice. Toward the end, he might snap back into focus, and then he'd feel guilty for wasting her attention. On those nights, he would be extra solicitous in an attempt to absolve himself. And it usually worked.  
  
At first, her unexpected openness was unnerving, as if these were details of her life that she might only share with a potential victim. Then he realized that wasn't the point at all; she was telling him because she had no one else to tell. Her daughter would never want to listen, her former husband would never want to know, her employer would never care. And it was quite possible that he wouldn't or didn't either, but maybe she thought he might understand. Maybe she thought he might learn something. Sometimes the stories had morals ("don't trust anyone" seemed to be a recurring theme), but mostly they had no point or purpose at all, just vignettes from her past.  
  
They always ended abruptly, and he was fascinated by the adjustment process that came next; an expression would pass over her face very quickly that betrayed her disorientation. It was as if she'd completely forgotten her location and her listener, and then suddenly remembered that this was somehow inappropriate. Then she'd smile, finish her drink, and more often than not offer the proposition: "Shall we?"  
  
He didn't want to think of the implication that accompanied the idea that in this situation he was merely a replacement for the daughter who would never listen, never allow her to pass these memories down to the next generation. She had probably never even spoken these words aloud before; why now, why him? An explanation occurred to him suddenly: is it possible she's actually afraid that if she doesn't tell me, she'll never get the chance to tell anyone again? The prospect of that particular woman fearing death, fearing obscurity, would almost be laughable if it didn't seem so painfully plausible. And he would be in that position one day, wouldn't he? A lifetime of work, and almost nothing to show for it that could be appreciated by the vast majority of outsiders he might be tempted to bring into his confidence. He pushed that idea away; more likely, the woman was bored, or enjoyed the sound of her own voice.  
  
He tried not to think of these little moments as indications of her trust in him. She never spoke of her husband, or former lovers (at least not in explicit detail), or her family, or her child; it was clear she was careful not to get overly personal. She didn't offer explanations for her actions, merely objective descriptions. And she never asked about his past, because she already knew the objective facts, and didn't care to know the subjective details. Maybe she simply felt obligated to give him something in return in order to make the playing field slightly less of a steep incline.  
  
The thought entered his mind as morning approached outside, and he smiled slightly, eyes closed. She was gone, obviously, and a glance at the clock revealed that although he had believed he was awake, a few hours had passed while he was turning over her potential motivations. His bruises had set, and no longer pulsed; the bleeding had stopped. And the cycle would begin once more: another day at work, pretending none of this ever happened, another night here, pretending this was something worth remembering in the daylight, and so on, until one or the other brought it to an end.   
  
Today would not be that day. Perhaps tomorrow. 


End file.
